I wish I was a romantic. I wish I could compose poems, like Shakespeare or Rumi.
Or Neruda. I love the way he makes words sing. At least that is what I think they do.
I want to talk about the woman I love.
Every day I see her in the mess hall, talking with her friends, taking sustenance. Every day I find excuses to stop working for a moment so I can watch her.
She likes to eat fruit bowls. She always takes seconds. Sometimes I give them to her and our hands touch for just a moment.
Those moments, I live for.
I wish I could write letters. It’s not my strong suit, letters. I am very good at arranging words, but they always amount to nothing. Just words in random, matter of fact, order. Purposeful.
I want to write a poem on how I love her red hair or her bright green eyes, or how she walks and dances.
Dances… I saw her dance once. With Ensign Carstairs.
He later told me of his plans with her and I became… Angry… I disposed of him, in a manner of speaking.
I told the captain about his words, even replayed a recording I had made of them for him and the captain shipped Carstairs off to Mars. Serves him right.
She was sad. She didn’t eat in the mess hall for a few days. I checked on her once when the sensors said she was asleep.
She seemed fine. She snored a little, which I liked.
Every time she walks by me, I sniff the air that surrounds her. The scent has been determined to be violets and jasmine.
She never sees me. To her, I am just one of the nameless droids that work on the ship.
I hope that one day I will be promoted so I can work on the command level of the ship instead of the mess hall. Then, I can be near her every day.
So I can smell her. Violets and Jasmine.
I wish I could write poetry about violets and jasmine and the way her back curves.
How would one even start to ask for programming for that?

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